


Fucking gravel

by ZoenOut



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Physical hurt, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:35:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25996111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoenOut/pseuds/ZoenOut
Summary: Have you ever had a breakdown? Crowley sure has. Couple that with being physically injured and you've got an interesting fanfic.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 65





	Fucking gravel

**Author's Note:**

> So! First of all I haven't had this computer all summer. I've written fanfic on another computer. I'll be posting them here so if you like this one feel free to check out others I've written.

The yellow eyes of the serpent were gazing out into the night. His hand was resting on the metal windowsill, it looked graceful with painted black nails and bony, long fingers. It was already late but he was used to the night. It was how he dealt with the rings spreading from the rock God had thrown into the lake that was the universe. Because at night everyone's free. He gave the darkness one last glance before stalking across the minimal apartment. His heeled snakeskin boots made a klacking sound with every step he took. He'd made up his mind, this was the right night for a walk. Time to try out that new jacket, he thought.

The jacket was the kind with two rows of buttons and a fancy neckline. It was all black, as were most of Crowley's clothes. Right now he wore a simple black shirt and a pair of jeans that were ripped at the knees. The jacket made his shoulders look even more sharp and pointed, that made him feel strong. He didn't bother putting his finger on it, it was just clothes, but that was the reason he liked it. He deliberated over the glasses for a moment. He knew the streets were empty, there was no real reason to put them on. But at the same time there was something comforting about them, it was habit at this point. He decided to go with the habit, he could always slip them into his pocket if he changed his mind. Crowley took a final look into the hall mirror before stepping outside and locking the door.

***

Crowley wouldn't say he liked walks, he wouldn't say he liked anything. He didn't have anything against walks. It allowed his mind to wander and Crowley had a dreamers mind. Always had. It was just the way he was made. He slid his jet-black airpods into his ears. He was a flash bastard afterall and using a sucessful invention always felt like a win. He had laughed out loud when he saw the post where a human had lost one airpod in Japan, they lived in the states. He put on his standard playlist, thankfully Crowley had found that his phone let him listen to other things than Queen. A moody song played on the violin came on and Crowley began to walk down the empty streets. The streetlights cast an orange glow on to the wet pavement, it had recently rained. A few windows were glowing with a similarly warm light, Crowley smirked to himself. Fellow people of the night. Then he let go of the chains keeping his thoughts at bay, they were left to run free.

First he thought of the almost-end-of-things. It was still fresh in his mind. Well, as fresh as things could be when you were tired to the bone when it happened. He shuddered. He didn't know how but he'd always thought that it seemed as if missfortune swarmed around him, in some way or another. Maybe that's just life as a demon... Other people thought he was pessimistic but what was pessimism for others was realism for A. J. Crowley. He didn't like thinking about the past but sometimes he had to, this was one of those times. He bottled things up to deal with later, and now was that later. He'd already let go of the chains. It was too late to turn back now. It was as if he was forced to recall every thing he'd tried to forget as he strode through the empty city with a bitter frown on his face. So this was where his mind went when he let it do it's own thing huh? Without him realizing it the sky had cleared up above him.

***

He stopped. He knew the stars wheren't visible in London yet he looked up. One single star shone back at him. And there was the realization, the penny drop. He'd just gotten to that bit, gotten to what started his missfortune. Gotten to where he fucked everything up. In the back of his mind he'd known this was going to happen. In some way or another. He'd known and yet he let it happen. A tear made it's way down his cheek. There's different kinds of tears, he'd learned that. Some are easy to manage, a few tears, wipe them away, forget about them. Others aren't. These weren't. He knew when he couldn't get them to stop. When he couldn't get them to stop the panic set in. Then it was already too late. It was too late and he'd fucked up. They kept rolling down his cheeks and he made a pitiful grimace to stop himself from sobbing outloud. The panic grew and he started running, as fast as he could. It was as if he was experiencing deja vu.

In the deja vu he was running from Mother. Mother was chasing him and yelling after him. She was yelling that he shouldn't and that he'd regret it but he ignored her. He kept on running towards the ledge. He knew now where he would end up but he didn't then and it was as if he wasn't moving. He was just running as he felt his legs start to sting, as he felt Mother try to catch up and as he felt his breaths come barreling down his lungs with a burning sensation. It hurt, his entire body burned with exhaustion. It wasn't exactly as if he was there but it was eerily similar. And then he tripped. He fell.

He skidded, tore up both his knees and his palms. His glasses flew off. Damn hole-at-the-knee jeans. The pain shot trough him, it stung to all heaven. Fucking gravel. He was shaking now, he could feel the tears making his nose run, making his face flushed, making his eyes red, wet and swollen. They were running down his throat now. Soaking into his shirt. Pathetic. He got up and kept stumbling on, he didn't bother picking up the glasses. This was realizing you'd lost something you were never going to get back. This was realizing something had been stolen from you. So many years he'd never get back. He wanted to scream, to cry, to be absolutely inconsolable. He wanted to slam his head against a wall.  
"Why do I have to be so mean?" he choked out, his voice already thick with tears.  
It'd happened before but it was as painful every time. Realizing that one decision had fucked you over and that just because you were a stupid kid you didn't deserve anything nice in your damned existence. He'd been robbed! He knew it wasn't really his fault but it felt like it. The blame was on him, it really was. He wiped his snot with the shirt sleeve, it didn't help. New jacket ruined just like that. He kept walking, who cares where he would end up?

***

Where he ended up was Aziraphale's bookshop. The angel was standing in the door and rushed out to meet him. Demonic, distressed energy was easy to sense for an angel. Crowley took a step back.  
"Dear boy, whatever happened?" Aziraphale seemed as distrought as Crowley felt.  
Crowley sobbed, far too loudly. He couldn't keep it at bay any longer. How would he explain? How would he explain that it wasn't a big deal, that he'd just fallen and was just having a breakdown? That things like these happen and that it was nothing to fuss about? That he just needed to get home and forget about this? It was too much. He was even more pathetic than before, he'd lost all control. His breathing was all over the place, he couldn't speak, all that came out were sobs and hiccups. He went from quietly crying to wailing, just trying to get something out of his stupid worthless mouth. Aziraphale took him by the shaking shoulders and led him inside.

***

Aziraphale had a bathroom in the shop. He'd never really used it, well except for the bathtub, but he found that shops should have a functioning bathroom. It was just the way things are supposed to be. Plus, he liked the old porcelin wash dishes, the ones with a bowl and a bottle to hold the water. This was the room he now led Crowley to, all the while muttering things such as:  
"Don't you worry dear, I'll get you cleaned up."  
"Just breathe for me dear, in then out."  
"Oh and your trousers have gotten damaged aswell..."  
"Oh dear, oh dear..."

When they had made their way through the pastel green door with the "WC" sign on it Aziraphale found he was more in his element than before. Now, he found, there was actually something he could do.  
"Now dear, just sit down here for me, there you go, I'll be right here, just need to get some towels and some water."  
Crowley curled up on the toilet seat, he put his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. His entire body was shaking, convulsing with the sobs, the wails and the rapid intake of breath. Aziraphale came back with papertowles, bandages and his wash dish in white and blue porcelin.  
"Alright dear, please give me your left hand." Crowley carefully stuck out his hand, Aziraphale gently took it. "Thank you."  
Aziraphales fingers were firm. He held Crowley's hand as softly as possible as he examined it. The hand was very scraped, Aziraphale would describe it as mangled. Bits of gravel sat in the raw flesh and the entire thing was covered in partially congealed blood, it just looked painful. Despite Aziraphale cleaning it as gently as possible Crowley still flinched everytime something touched his hand. The angel picked out the bits of gravel one by one with a pair of tweezers, uttering an "I'm sorry" every time.  
"Dear, this is going to hurt but I'm going to need to sanitize the cut."  
He shaked out a little rubbing alcohol onto a cottonball and put it to the cut. Crowley hissed, his entire body jerked.  
"I'm sorry, dear. I'm sorry..."  
Aziraphale then wrapped it up with the bandages. He did the same with the other hand and both knees. By this point Crowley had stopped crying, although his breaths were still hitched and Aziraphale could feel he was exhausted.  
"Wrap your arms around my neck dear boy, just like that."  
Aziraphale carried him upstairs and put him to bed.


End file.
